


Drowns On Dry Land

by Moorishflower



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-20
Updated: 2010-06-20
Packaged: 2017-10-10 05:05:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is an idiot for forgetting that he can't swim, and Gabriel is an idiot for thinking that the Winchesters would ever manage to keep themselves out of trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drowns On Dry Land

  
So, Sam is an idiot, and he's totally willing to admit that when it's _true_ (not whenever Dean says it, because whenever Dean calls him an idiot it's because Sam is saying something that Dean doesn't want to hear). Sam is an idiot who forgot to bring a lifejacket out into the middle of a lake.

Granted, they usually have more dire things to worry about than run-of-the-mill drowning, but that's no excuse. Sam took a gym course at Stanford and learned that he sucks at swimming, so he _knows_ the risks.

His one consolation is that Dean is alright. Dean is a better swimmer than he is, and he can see Dean hauling himself onto the dock even as he thinks about it, can see him glancing around, can see his lips forming the word 'Sammy!'

And Sam is caught three feet or more under the water, his ankle weighed down by a dead kappa, and he has absolutely no clue how to move his arms and legs in a way that might shake it off. It's so heavy, every inch of him feels heavy and cold and _tired_, and Sam just wants to close his eyes and sleep for a while. His lungs burn, too much, too much, and he breathes out, inhales ice-cold lake water and gags on it. Now his lungs are freezing. There's no happy medium.

"Do you Winchesters have some sort of death wish or something? You should tell me now, before I go saving your asses again."

People aren't supposed to be able to talk underwater.

Are they?

Sam's eyes drift closed against the oppressive darkness, and the cold of the lake.

~

Sam wakes next to a roaring fire, splayed out on a rug that feels like it might be made of some kind of fur. He takes a moment to consider his last memory (drowning in a lake) versus what he's looking at right now (Gabriel, sitting in an easy chair and reading The Grapes of Wrath). He tries to pinch his arm, just in case this is Heaven and Sam got the short end of the stick.

He can't move his arms.

Sam's pretty sure he makes a noise, some pathetic, half-assed noise, because Gabriel looks up from his book and levels him with a stare that's somewhere between 'I am mildly disappointed in you' and 'I find you amusing, in the same way that I would find a brain-damaged puppy amusing.' Except then Sam starts shivering, all over, full-body vibrations that make his teeth hurt and every inch of his skin feels like it's simultaneously numb and _on fire_.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Gabriel says, and the book vanishes as he sets it down on the arm of his chair. "You can't make anything easy, can you?"

_Fuck you_, Sam tries to say. It comes out as a slurred and chattered "Fuh" sound. Which is probably still better than drowning, but that doesn't make him feel any less pissed about his situation.

"You're welcome!" Gabriel sounds suspiciously cheerful for a guy who, when Sam last saw him, was having his guts being torn out by the Devil wielding an archangel-killing sword. "Now stop thinking so hard. I'm here, you're here, that's all there is to it."

_No it isn't_, Sam thinks. There's far more to it than that.

But then Gabriel lays himself down on the maybe-fur rug beside Sam, and his grin is moonlight and snow unmelted by the fire, fir trees, something wild and undeniably pagan in the glint of his teeth and the curve of his mouth. Sam's about to vibrate out of his skin, about to puke he feels so numb and sick, and still he's fascinated. Enchanted, maybe.

Gabriel wraps one arm around Sam's waist, and the other loops around his shoulders, drawing him close until they're pressed body to body, chest to chest. Lying next to Gabriel is the angelic equivalent of walking on hot coals. He's almost _too_ hot, like he'll combust at any second. It's frightening. It's utterly glorious, and Sam makes a sound in his throat that he's sure is way too pornographic and eager, and he tries to burrow closer.

And Gabriel _lets him_.

"You gave your brother quite the scare," Gabriel says. Sam is vaguely aware of the fact that Gabriel is stroking his fingers through his hair, his still lake-damp hair, and he probably smells like fish and wild water but the archangel doesn't seem to care. "Don't worry. I told him to take a chill pill and then sent him and Castiel to Maui. Grass skirts and pina coladas for everyone."

_I'm pretty sure you're lying_, Sam thinks. He feels, more than sees, Gabriel smiling against the curve of his neck.

"Yeah, yeah. So sue me. They're in the cabin next door, fretting about you like mother hens and wondering how I cheated death. Again. I told them I needed some time alone in order to heal you."

_More like sexual healing_, Sam muses. And then, _Oh god, no, I didn't mean that._

"Why, Sammy, I'm _hurt_."

Sam makes a noise that he strongly suspects might be a whimper, and Gabriel shushes him, his fingers carding strong and sure through his hair. It isn't damp anymore, he notices.

And he also isn't shivering.

He opens his mouth and tries to speak.

"Thanks," he manages. His lungs still feel like they've got sand in them, and he's still damp and chilled, but he's alive. He's _alive_.

That seems to be something that's going around, lately.

"Tell me about it," Gabriel murmurs, and Sam is pretty sure, although not completely, that he feels the soft press of lips against the crown of his head. "Sleep now, kiddo. Plenty of time to interrogate me when you're all better."

Sam closes his eyes against the firelight, and dreams of swimming without ever needing to breathe.


End file.
